Monday, March 14, 2011

Omnium Gatherum

It's amazing how, once you have to do some real work instead of sitting around in your jammies eating Cool Whip from a spoon, all the things you used to blog about seem to stop happening.

Or maybe they are happening, but you just don't care so much. Think of Lent as a chance to practice Buddhist non--attachment.

Still, a few things have caught our attention lately. (Apart from Japan, which is too unbelievably serious for a yellow-bloggerism rag like the Egg to deal with. Do we have to say it? Okay, then: Pray. Give. Repeat.) More up our alley are these tidbits:

Some guy we've never heard of doesn't believe in Hell. This is hardly news; lots of people don't believe in Hell. This guy's a minister, so people get upset. Big freaking whoop. We knew a guy who stood in the pulpit on Easter morning and said he didn't believe in the Resurrection. (We asked him about it once, and he smirked. Yet not only did lightning not strike the guy dead, he retired comfortably -- leaving behind a crippled and dying congregation. So we do believe in Hell, mostly for this lameass. And for Joe "Spiderman Kills His Kids" Quesada.)

Speaking of Spiderman: Amazingly, nobody has turned out the lights. Officially. Yet.

A church in Florida has spent several years worshiping inside a balloon. Now they can't pay the rent, so ... that sucking sound has nothing to do with NAFTA.

But, since I have a soft spot for the notion of Purgatory, I can be comforted by a Hans urs von Balthazar-style "hope but not affirmation" that Hell exists, and is empty. Or at least nearly empty,

As for what happens in Hell, I have a pretty good idea. Every day, I walk to a diner where I once had a really good spinach pie. But today, the spinach pie is burned on the bottom, cold in the middle and has the wrong spinach-to-feta ratio. Then, when I ask for Coke, the waitress mutters "Pepsi okay." Which of course it is not.

It may not sound like Hell. It may not even sound particularly bad. But every day for the rest of time?

My only consolation is the conviction that Joe Quesada will be sitting at the next table, with a plate of soggy fries.